


The Picture of Lucien Chardon

by Abelarda



Category: La Comédie Humaine - Honoré de Balzac, Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Drama, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Abelarda/pseuds/Abelarda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of young Grantaire as a painter. Includes many references to Balzac's "La Comédie humaine", Wilde's "The Picture of Dorian Gray" and Greek mythology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Written by me.  
>  English translation by Elwen_Rhiannon._
> 
>  **[Author's note]** For Elwen_Rhiannon, Cary and all fans of Balzac.  
>  **[Translator's note]** For Frédérique, a fellow fan of Balzac, with many thanks for our talks.

The beginning of August 1822 was extremely hot. The sun was still getting up early and before it set, the heat was not subsiding even for a moment and there was no chance to fight it with almost no clouds in the sky. All one could do was to surrender. Every single day meant long, slowly passing hours wasted on a fight with the heat: the best you could do was to hide in a shade and pray for rain. Nights were sultry and heavy from masses of heated air, but the rain was not coming. Distant thunders foreshadowed what should come, but did not.

There were people for which the heat was more of a curse than for the others: Lucien Chardon would give a lot for even a slight blow of wind or even a few drops of rain. The heat meant to him early sunrises next to Coralie's bed, stuffy air of the sleeping room, the scent of her illness and the heated forehead of his former lover. He was touching it often to check if the fever ceased, but it never did. He was spending all nights like this, falling finally asleep in an old armchair, with his palm on her forehead, till being awoken by far too bright sunrise. Every dawn was bringing a new hope for the fever to be smaller and Lucien's very first morning gesture was touching Coralie's forehead again: half with silent begging, half with fear. Because the fever never ceased, and Lucien knew he had to do something to get some money for new, perhaps better medicines.

Right, Bianchon _did_ help him to get a credit at the apothecary's. Lucien was using it regularly; he knew he would be unable to take care of Coralie without it. Yet there was something embarrassing for him in this arrangement, another act of charity – or was it pity? – towards the poor, lost kid that used to be one of them. The burden of all his misfortunes was unbearable. It was killing all that was left of his ambitions, no matter how much smaller every day. He was unable to look into the eyes of any of his ex-companions from the Cenacle. Bianchon's kindness was to him more of a burden than poverty and the illness of his lover. He was always unsure what is the real reason behind it: true care about Coralie or the will to show Lucien how wrong he was to live against their advice.

Yet there were things in the world his former friends were unable to understand, enclosed in their own circle of utopian dreams. It had not mattered to Lucien how many paths and roads unknown to the Cenacle must he walk, as long as he had been sure that they would lead him to where he had wanted to get. He had been even able to believe it, as long as he had been on his own and his ambitions still alive.

But then Coralie got ill and all back paths connected into one wide road leading him to the filthy, grey tavern. One could not think of a more ill-omened name for a place: a red sign with a name _Devil's Horn_ was reflecting sunlight right into his face, hurting Lucien's weary eyes. He half-closed his eyelids, raised his head and looked again, ensuring himself that he was in the right place. In an act of desperate courage, he opened the door and stepped in.

The stuffy air inside the tavern was a kind of a shock to him, no matter how used to the scent of an ill body has he recently become. It was almost unbearable. The whole room stank of a cheap alcohol, wormwood, anise and tobacco, and the dirty dishes standing on old, darkened tables seemed to be witnesses of far too many fights in the past. Servant girls with grey faces were moving like ghosts among those tables, becoming material only when there was a need to bid farewell to some of the more drunken guests. Even for the tavern, the place was repulsive, and Lucien could not think of a person choosing to spend here time _willingly_. Especially when the person was supposed to be an artist, a painter, and quite a good one, at least according to Berenice. Berenice, who knew nothing about art.

He knew what is his biggest problem: he could not force himself to take any fancy to the stranger he was going to meet. On the contrary – he disliked the unknown painter almost instinctively. No matter if he was going to save him or torment him, the job was sure. It was the last stage of Lucien's personal downfall. He would never agree to do something like that for anyone but Coralie. Besides, Berenice had told him that this man is sure to pay him and he trusted her like no one else: if nothing else, she was one of the few who did not leave them when things started to be hard. Even if she could. Well, he had no choice but to believe her. This faith was the only thing supporting him when his world was falling down.

Inside the tavern, Lucien fell on the first chair, nervously clasping his palms dressed in unfashionable gloves. He was not sure what does his supposed saviour looked like, the description that Berenice gave him was far too enigmatic to create an image of a man he was waiting for. He knew from experience that whoever the man is, he will pay him more if he thinks Lucien can do without his money. But the only thing he could do to pretend to be more wealthy was his worn out hat and damned, unfashionable gloves, all that was left of his _past_ wealth just because he was unable to find anyone to buy them. Far too little to pretend that he belongs to the higher society.

Lucien smiled sadly: he knew well that no matter how he tries, he will not be able to impress anyone anymore, neither with his clothes, nor with his looks. He was scared by what he had seen in the mirror before leaving: he could not recognize himself in the shadow of a man looking at him. Blue eyes darkened, looking with a sight of a man who knows that he has no more to lose, and his famous golden hair were ruined by far too many nights in an armchair: he had neither money to have them dressed properly, nor time to think about it. There was a time when he used to be able to seduce any townswoman with just one look, and a less severe lady, who did not mind his provincial manners, with only a few more; now, even Parisian courtesans and prostitutes were looking at him with dislike, professionally sensing his poverty.

Lucien closed his eyes: he felt he was going to fall asleep, unable to fight it even if the tavern was not the safest place for rest. He knew that whoever wanted to rob him, would find only a few coins, being his sole property now. Even if somebody dragged him out of the tavern now, demanding to choose between money or life, Lucien would be happy to choose the second option, if he knew, that he would be able to rest afterwards.

Nobody was bothering him, and Lucien gave up to his tiredness. He thought that he was dozing for no longer than a moment and was startled by being woken up. The voice – feminine? – was telling him to open his eyes. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder: one of the servant girls was tugging him by his sleeve with the same gesture she was waking drunkards up, and Lucien reddened with humiliation.

"Want to order something?" she asked in an irritated voice, looking suspiciously at his hat and gloves, unfashionable, but still different from what other guests tended to wear.

Lucien shook his head, still trying to wake up, and lifted his hand up, wanting to calm the girl down, but it was then when he saw the man who could be the one he was waiting for. Of all the visitors of the tavern, he was obviously a frequent one and what more, he was quite matching the description Berenice gave him. One can recognize him even in a crowd, she said, and the stranger was exactly like that: there was something that distinguished him in the crowd of drinking men. Maybe it was a book laying on a table next to him, or his gaze, concentrated at one point, laying somewhere far away from him.

The stranger looked around. He seemed to be searching for something in the faces of customers, as if he was valuing their usefulness to him, and turned towards Lucien. Their eyes met.

 _If_ it was him, he looked different than Lucien thought him to; his looks were enough for a person to expect a step into a deeper level of Hell rather than salvation. There was something almost grotesque in the stranger's thick hair, bushy eyebrows and much too big nose, something demonical that made Lucien move himself back and stick to the chair's back. It wasn't even the ugliness of the stranger, but the expression on his face, more repulsive than everything else, that took the rest of Lucien's hope.

The stranger could be a few years younger than himself, perhaps in Coralie's age, but there was already this particular look in his eyes, the nonchalant cynicism Lucien knew so well from the face of Etienne Lousteau and people like him. His appearance made the impression even stronger: the clothing, even if more wealthy than Lucien's, was wrinkled and rather not fresh, with traces of dried paint. The mixture of welfare and abnegation – conscious, as much as Lucien could judge – was strangely ostentatious, as if the stranger was trying to prove something with his looks. Yet somehow he suited Berenice's description and that was why Lucien decided to slowly approach the table in the corner occupied by that man.

"Please, excuse me," he said, much less surely than he wanted to. "I'm Lucien de..." he shrugged and touched his forehead, wet with nervous sweat, trying to convince himself that the visibly sarcastic half-smile of the stranger is not a bad omen. "Chardon. Just Chardon."

The stranger did not respond. Impatiently, Lucien moved closer; he sensed a strong scent of alcohol and could barely fight sudden dizziness.

"Would you mind if I sit down?" he asked, grasping the back of an empty chair. The stranger nodded, indifferently, without even casting a glance at him.

"First time here, at _Devil's Horn_ , _sir_ Lucien?" he murmured in a voice hoarse from too much alcohol. „In case you have not noticed yourself, I can ensure you that this pretty name is not a coincidence and, moreover, a portent of who may meet you here. Well, since it seemed that you dared to enter here anyway, abandon all hope. People who come here, always return. Not that anyone finds this place by coincidence, my personal guess is that it's this place that finds _us_." He shrugged and moved towards Lucien his half-drained bottle of absinthe. „Have a drink, _sir_ , and forget about everything outside. Better for you to not think about what you drink and what you may see. One can hardly bear this alcohol and the girls aren't much better, but it's one of the very few places in Paris when we are really equal, well, at least for a moment. No matter if you are wearing this elegant gloves that used to be fashionable something like half a year ago, or have a background much better than most of the mortals drinking here. None of it _matters_ , _sir_ Lucien. Everybody drinks in the same way. With or without „de"."

He stopped talking and concentrated on his glass of absinthe. The silence between them was almost offensive. It awoke Lucien who waved his hand and impatiently moved the bottle far from him.

„I did not come here to drink with you," he said firmly. „It's about the picture," he kept watching a temple of the stranger, who turned his profile on Lucien, and waiting for any kind of reaction. „It is _you_ I've been looking for, isn't it? You're…"

It made Lucien's interlocutor finally raise his eyes from the table. There was a slight shadow of interest on his face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared and morphing into a kind of reluctant grimace.

„Grantaire," he said, puckering his forehead. Lucien fought the sudden need to leave as fast as possible.

„Grantaire," he repeated. He cast another glance at the stranger and froze, with a hand already extended to shake the man's, noticing his openly mocking gaze. „You're a student of Gros, right? A friend of Berenice…?"

A sudden burst of laughter cut into the sentence, throwing Lucien off the balance. Surprised, he pulled away from his interlocutor and let his hand fall. Grantaire's laughter was even more unpleasant than his look, cold and mocking, as if he took the other man for nothing. It was the last thing Lucien needed, too exhausted to bear mockery now, when he stopped hoping that listening to them may benefit. He was getting up, sure about leaving the tavern, when he felt Grantaire's hand catching his wrist in a grasp of steel.

"Right, _sir_ , you're right. On student, acquaintance, whoever. If _you_ say so." The painter bowed with a visible mockery and this time it was him studying Lucien attentively. He was silent for a brief moment and let his wrist go, pouring himself another glass of absinthe. "So you really think you can personify Apollo? With this eyes, hair, and the rest? Looking as someone who has just fallen into a gutter?"

Lucien clenched fists. His back bent and his shoulders were shaking.

"I don't know," he said with paled lips, without looking into the painter's eyes. Grantaire slowly raised a full glass to his mouth.

"But I do," he murmured, taking a deep sip of absinthe and putting the glass away. "Yes, _sir_ Lucien, I think you can, when you have to. Which is why I agree to test you. That is, of course, if you can also do something with you to look like a god or at least as a human being and not a ghost. Till tomorrow. Come to my place at six and we shall see. I guess dear Berenice gave you the address?"

Lucien nodded; he felt too much of relief to trust his own voice.

"So we have an appointment, at least for now," Grantaire clasped his palms on a bottle with the rest of absinthe. "And for _now_ , goodbye, _sir_ Lucien.

Their talk was over. Pressing Grantaire made no sense: the painter was brusque and unpleasant like no one else, right, but he also did agree to give him a chance and that was all that mattered in his situation. Better not to wait till he changes his mind: even if Lucien felt his knees shaking out of tiredness, or perhaps relief, he knew that the best he can do at the moment is leaving. Even if this would mean a quarter in front of the tavern's door: he might be too weak to go further.

Lucien closed his eyes and leant on a doorframe. He was brought to consciousness by a sudden pain: a door leaf, pushed with a great strength, hit his barely healed, now touched wound. Lucien cursed Michel Chrestien, not knowing himself if for wounding him, or not taking aim more carefully, and dragging his feet started to walk towards his place.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Written by me.  
>  English translation by Elwen_Rhiannon._
> 
>  **[Author's note]** For Elwen_Rhiannon, Cary and all fans of Balzac.  
>  **[Translator's note]** For Frédérique, a fellow fan of Balzac, with many thanks for our talks.

Meeting Grantaire gave Lucien some energy. He was still unsure whether he fulfills the painter’s requirements: it was just one try-out, after all, the first and the easiest one. But he felt himself a little bit less resigned and this small victory after so many failures was so unexpected that he was holding on to it with all of his powers.

All he wanted now was for Berenice to not ask him about Grantaire: luckily, she just gave him one of these caring looks Lucien tried not to notice, even if he knew that the servant is uneasy about him. Not that it differed much from what he felt himself. But he was not ready to talk about the painter, not yet: he was afraid that if he starts to think, he will start to doubt. Loose his strength, which was something he couldn’t afford when strength was what he needed right now, more than ever. The best way to deal with his doubts was to stop thinking and act instead, while he still could.

He spent all the evening, and a large part of the night, on hasty preparations to the second meeting with that painter. Not noticing neither the servant, nor suddenly visiting Daniel d’Arthez: in any other situation he would be surprised, by in this situation Lucien barely noticed his presence, while searching for his old clothes, smoothening them and putting them in order with some unnatural energy. His small room was soon full of various garments, freed from a wardrobe and laying everywhere: worn-out shirts, carefully repaired by Berenice, and a few once elegant pieces of clothes, impossible to wear now. There were also other things of the kind that any junk dealer would not take, most of them being papers. Lucien were looking through them more carefully, throwing the vast majority of them into fire. They were blazing and filling the room with the smell of burning while Lucien was smiling to himself, feeling a sudden peace coming upon him.

Berenice and Daniel were bearing this sudden change of mood rather calmly, until Lucien, who at the time was wearing no more than a shirt, put his head in a basin full of water. Terrified Berenice took it as Lucien’s attempt to drown himself, while Daniel was trying to calm him down, thinking his friend mad.

“See, it’s late and not the best time to do such things. Go to sleep and let me take care of everything until you’ll be rested,” he explained, carefully taking cloths from Lucien’s hands.

“Please, mister Lucien, leave these to me and go to sleep. It’s all because you’re overtired,” said Berenice, discretely taking the basin out of Lucien’s line of sight.

Lucien did not respond to any of them. He was combing his wet hair with his hands and looking at the drops of water between his fingers. He did not intend to explain. They would not understand.

At the break of dawn Daniel left, shaking his head and visibly worried. Lucien was relieved. Now he finally had time to take care of himself in peace: the quiet presence of a friend, indifferent at first, had become almost unbearable at the end of his visit. Daniel, this ghost of the past, speaking to him in a quiet voice and following him with a gentle, worried gaze, awakened all the doubts Lucien was fighting to forget.

He regained some of his balance while sitting by a mirror and combing his hair, trying to put his locks in order: they were still not what they should be, enframing his sickeningly pale face. Well, at least they looked a bit better after the washing. He looked at the dark circles under his eyes with disgust: there was no way to cover them with Coralie’s theatrical powder. He was aware that whatever he did, he would not look as good as he used to be. Well, perhaps Grantaire will appreciate his efforts and decide that he is taking the job seriously. He buttoned the shirt, put the best of the ties he still had and reached for gloves. Suddenly, Lucien hesitated and put a hand deeper into a drawer.

It was yesterday evening when he found the little cross, a forgotten gift from Ève. He knew he should have sold it long time ago, being able to get a few more sous for it, or perhaps a bit more, even if it was just a cheap trinket even his sister could afford: every money mattered now, in their situation. But he decided he still had time to do it. It was too late now, anyway, and he would not be able to go and find a person to discuss the price with.

He left with a cross around his neck, followed by an unspoken blessing in Berenice’s eyes.

Grantaire’s atelier was not what Lucien expected it to be: he was prepared to enter some dark, grim room, that would match the brusqueness of its owner, yet under the address he was given he found something completely different. The room was not big, but bright, enlivened by colourful canvas stretched on the easel. As far as Lucien was able to judge, the half-finished paintings were quite good, which convinced him that perhaps his employer is not such a bad artist that he had suspected him to be: maybe the gossip about Grantaire being taught by Gros himself, the one Lucien could not believe earlier, was really true. In the corner, a small space was covered by a screen from the eyes of visitors. Lucien made a few steps, giving the atelier a glance. His eyes met the central point of the room – a podium for the models.

Just an atelier with nothing special about it: you could find many similar rooms in Paris. Joseph Bridau was probably using something similar. Lucien did not know why out of sudden did he feel an almost superstitious fear in such an inconspicuous place: he would not be surprised if he was asked to sign the pact with the devil himself, with his own blood. Maybe that’s what it looks like, he thought suddenly. Maybe the places that look completely innocent are the places where the rich ones loose all they have. And the poor ones loose their souls, because no junk dealer wanted to take them.

”Sooo, _sir Lucien_ , I guess you expected something else,” accosted Grantaire, watching Lucien’s face and fighting amusement.

Lucien shuddered: for a moment he felt that Grantaire is reading his thoughts. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, inhaling the scent of paint and varnish. He suddenly felt lost as a child in this strange, unfamiliar world. He did not resist when the painter grabbed him by his shoulders and pulled him deeper, positioning Lucien in the brightest point of the atelier, by the window. Even when Grantaire impetuously shut the door behind him with a bang, the sound did not elicit any reaction. Lucien was standing helplessly next to the easel, crumpling the brim of his worn-out hat and looking at the floor.

“Right, so let’s go. Not much to say, though, just a few things,” announced Grantaire, sitting down with a total lack of elegance and completely ignoring the fact that his guest was still standing where he had left him. “You – money, me – a painting. That’s not very difficult to understand, is it? Any explanations?”

“The money,” repeated Lucien, recognizing a familiar word that made him regain self-confidence and stopped his hands from shaking. “We haven’t discussed it yet, I know just the preliminary rate. I need it now, as soon as possible. Would you pay me in advance? A... a part of the sum, maybe?...”

Grantaire cast a sharp glance at Lucien’s figure, estimating the cost of his wardrobe and valuing the possible price of even the smallest part of his clothing. The painter shook his head.

”No way, _sir Lucien_! If you get your money now, at the beginning and with no effort, you won’t return here anymore. Yes, yes, I know the likes of you, telling everyone how, oh, hard it is to keep the pot boiling, taking the money and running a wild-goose chase... Honesty, they say, is a rare virtue, mostly because all who happen to possess it also tend to die early, as we know from Juvenal. Not necessarily of cold. Your dressing style is what it is, but you’re still alive. Which is why we’re going to do it on my terms, or not at all,” he said sharply, crossing his arms on his chest and shaking his head. “Are we agreed, or not? Be kind to note that the amount I offer is quite decent and to be honest, no one I know will give you more. Not now, not in your current state. One needs just a glance to know in what kind of conditions you live, it’s not that easy to hide. Even on the canvas, I’d say, especially not there.

“So it’s still bad, you say,” said Lucien in a lowered voice. Grantaire shrugged.

“Yes, and no. Better, but not good enough. Next time you have to do better than today.” He rose up slowly from his chair and approached Lucien, who was still standing stiffly, putting fingers into his hair and messing them a bit. “All right, I won’t change the amount I offered, under one circumstance. For your next visit, you have to dress it up properly. It doesn’t cost _tha_ t much, does it? You know that much better than I do, am I wrong?”

Lucien remained silent. The painter’s sudden familiarity was worse than his previous harshness; if he could, he would leave the atelier far behind him. But he knew he did not have a choice. Patience was the only solution.

“As for the rest, we shall see,” said Grantaire, not flustered at all. “But first I have to see what I buy. Any problem?”

“Here?” whispered Lucien, instinctively putting his hand on the knot of his tie and lowering his gaze: it was the moment he was most afraid of. But Grantaire was merciless.

“Yes, here.”

Lucien bit his lips and nodded. Slowly, avoiding the eyes of the painter, he undid one button. Then, another one. And Grantaire was just standing and watching him with an attentive, critical look, valuing every centimetre of pale skin and every tensed muscle: shuddering under his touch, Lucien thought that Grantaire would be a much better merchant than a painter. What was the worst, was not the feeling of being robbed of any privacy, but the awareness of the gaze that was estimating his value, just as if he was no more than an article on a second-rate stall. Maybe it would be less disturbing to undress behind the screen and then show up in one desperate step. It would be less of an effort. But Grantaire obviously wanted to try him, to check whether he suits his taste and how far would he go for the money.

The painter put out his hand towards Lucien, and this was it: the worst humiliation that made Lucien bite his lips so hard that he tasted blood, pretending that he is not feeling the touch of this hand on his body, the touch of not an artist’s, but a worker’s - a butcher’s palm, with a powerful grip of strong, bony fingers. No matter how hard was he trying to persuade himself that it is not the painter, but Coralie standing next to him, his imagination refused to co-operate.

The examination was long. Too long.

”Skin and bones,” said Grantaire harshly, playing his fingers on Lucien’s emaciated shoulder. “Pretending to be the radiant Apollo, divine incarnation of life, light and beauty. _O tempora, o mores_ , as Cicero would say, were he to see you here today, though let me say that you’re far from resembling Catiline as well. To sum up: the world is going to the dogs, as it was probably predicted at the very moment it was created. And,” Grantaire put his hand on Lucien’s chest, suddenly hesitant, “what do we have here? A scar, and what more, not an old one. Let’s see the diameter... a bullet, I know something about it. A duel, am I right? Oh my, firing at someone recently, _sir Lucien_?”

Lacking the words, Lucien simply nodded. The memory of that duel that took place just a few months ago was still heavy for him. Even if he did not feel any physical pain: the wound ached only when somebody accidentally touched it. Other consequences were far worse. Every meeting with Daniel, even an accidental one, made his long forgotten conscience awake, even if he knew that his fault was not as big as his former friends were thinking. The memory of Michel Chrestien’s face, changed by anger, implacable and fearfully unfamiliar, was still haunting him. It appeared in Lucien’s nightmares, making him awake with a feeling of being publicly humiliated and rejected. But how could he tell Grantaire about this, when he was giving him this gaze of irony, no, it would be far more humiliating than that dreams; the mere thought made Lucien shudder.

"O-oh, so I was _right_! Really, the youth nowadays is crazy," said the painter nonchalantly, making a face; the grimace deformed his ugly features, young, but already ruined by carousals. “Not that I will ever understand it. But peace with everyone. Anyway, with all your mancaments which I can see, you have a scar. And this bony ribs, urgh,” he wrinkled his brows. “Seems that I will pay too much money, as usually. But let it be, also, as usually. I should’ve expected that when I’ve heard that you write poetry, _sir Lucien_.”

Lucien bit his lips harder.

“Now, what the hell shall I do...,” monologued Grantaire, puckering his forehead and considering something. The mockery in his eyes was replaced by bitterness. It lasted only a moment. “But of course! They want an allegory, they’ll have an allegory, even if not the one they expected. With this dim glance of yours, you can make a perfect _Apollon Mantis_ , Apollo the Diviner. You’ll divine them that their end is near, well, actually they came to it a good few years ago, but we can skip this part, the information hasn’t reached them and rather won’t soon. Come on, put your hands together, ye-eees, just like this, you’re a true _Mantis religiosa_ now! Up with your chin, yes, just like this, eyelids half-closed, perfect! Pretend to be gazing at the stars. Not much to ask from poets and lunatics. Lunatics should be enough, though, as every poet is a lunatic, even if not all lunatics write poetry. Well, you’re both, aren’t you, _sir Lucien_? That explains a lot. Almost everything. Everything, according to the measure of our times. You’re enough for it. Oh my, what do we have here...?”

Lucien’s eyes followed Grantaire’s hand. The fingers of the painter were touching the chain around his neck, slowly moving down its links and tickling the skin. Frightened and tensed, Lucien held his breath.

”It’s a cross,” he said blankly, feeling that this was not the answer his interlocutor was expecting. Grantaire seemed intrigued: he tilted his head a bit and bored his eyes into Lucien’s neck.

”This is interesting,” he said. “It’s the first time I see something like that. Do you think I’m the kind of person you should be protected from, or do you think I’ll have a better opinion of you, seeing that you’re religious? What’s the point of this show: getting my pity?”

”No!” cried Lucien, closing the tiny cross in his fist and not allowing Grantaire to see it closer: he felt as if he was protecting Ève, modest and chaste, pure from the dirty touch of a big city.

The painter raised his eyebrows, obviously surprised.

”So much for lunatics and poets,” mumbled, “as for their belief in miracles. Don’t worry about your precious talisman, _sir Lucien_ , those of my kind don’t need them. No need for you to take it off, too, you can keep your beliefs.” He put his hand on the shoulder of Lucien, who was still stunned after his recent outburst, and gave him a small push towards the podium. “Enough of that – on stage, Apollo!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Written by me.  
>  English translation by Elwen_Rhiannon._
> 
> **[Author's note]** For Elwen_Rhiannon, Cary and all fans of Balzac.  
>  **[Translator's note]** For Frédérique, a fellow fan of Balzac, with many thanks for our talks.

III

It was about ten in the evening and already dark, when Lucien finally left Grantaire’s atelier. The posing took much more time then he would have thought, too often aborted by the artist himself, stopping to correct the pose of the model and using it as an opportunity for another flood of words. Obviously loving the timbre of his voice. Exhausted more that he had ever been, Lucien needed some time to get rid of all the anxiety and calm himself down enough to show himself up at Coralie’s. Maybe that was one of the reasons why he was not able to fight the temptation of walking into an inn, where he hoped to not meet anyone he knew in his more glorious days, and buy a glass of some cheap wine: he did not think he could afford more.

The inn he finally chose was disgusting enough for all of his friends to not even think about buying anything here. The wine was distasteful as well. Lucien was drinking it slowly, with disgust, prepared for the protests his empty stomach might make after that poor alcohol, but sure as never before that this is what he needs. While drinking, he noticed that he is surrounded by people so different from the ones he was dealing with just a few months ago that it was almost impossible to imagine how his life had changed. Surely, de Marsay and Rastignac - _de_ Rastignac - would curl their lips with disgust had they ever the opportunity to see him in such a place, but the friendship of these two was as short-lived as his own luck: the first thing disappeared when the second one ceased. Not that Lucien minded. He just felt that without that he will never be able to get home as his own knees will refuse to obey him in a middle of a street.

If he could, he would drink more, to the point where he would be able to forget everything. But he could afford only one glass of wine. Too little to forget, too much to be indifferent, enough to make him sit by the wall and bury his face in his hands. Soon he lost track of time, unsure how much time had passed when he finally let his palms go off his eyelids. No matter how much did he want to stay in the inn forever and never have to go on the outside, he had to leave his hiding and face what awaited him at home. Like empty drawers. Or the awareness that he cannot prepare for the next session the way the painter expected him to. Or Berenice, looking at him as if she knew everything. And the hardest to bear, the feverish look of Coralie’s eyes.

He was unsure whether he will be able to look her in the face. He knew Coralie would not mind him doing what he was doing: after all, was she not doing something similar with old Camusot, just because neither Lucien nor her was able leave the luxuries behind? Lucien felt sudden guilt. At the moment, he hated all these elegant clothing that was Coralie’s gift for him, paid by the old merchant. If he still had it, he would have burnt it all the way he burnt the papers, no matter how much worth, but he had already sold it. He cursed his own blindness, not knowing why is it now that he feels such self-disgust when he was just doing what Coralie had been doing for him all the time. He felt sudden anxiety because of not telling her anything. But Berenice knew everything, and he trusted her. That had to do.

He was not sure how many people did turn their eyes on him while he was walking down the street, tottering more because of exhaustion than because of the alcohol he had drunk. He felt his steps being more and more uncontrolled. His eyes were burning: without stopping, Lucien closed his eyelids and put his fingers on them. This was why he did not notice a hole in a pavement, almost falling down while stumbling over a stone. He regained his balance in the very lest moment, holding on to a street lamp. He noticed the disapproving look from an old woman sitting by the church wall and a burst of laughter from a group of students. Ashamed, he concentrated his eyes on the paving, wishing to be invisible.

"A few sous, if you would," cried the beggar in her monotone voice. "A few sous!" 

Lucien smiled bitterly and turned his pockets out while passing here. They were empty. 

When he finally reached home, he hesitated for a long while before he knocked. The desire to turn around and run away was much stronger than it was in the inn: for a brief moment he wanted to lay down in the corridor and never have to go in. Not to learn about anything new and not to be reminded of his obligations. Not to be asked any questions. When he decided to let them know that he was back, his knocking was so shy that it was barely audible.

The door opened immediately. Lucien faced Berenice, knowing immediately that he will not be able to run away from answering her. The servant knew him well enough to notice his unsteady steps and sense alcohol in his breath. All Lucien could do was not to notice her noticing. 

He was always bad at pretending.

"So, how was it?" she asked openly.

"Don’t know," said Lucien, looking the other way. The weariness in his voice was easy to sense. "Good. Guess so."

For a moment Berenice looked as if she wanted to ask about something more, but did not dare to say it aloud. There was no need for Lucien to look at the servant to feel her look on him; he wanted to tell her to go away and leave him in peace. He was not sure for how long will he be able to pretend that the painter did not impress him in the slightest; he was now aware how weak he was, much weaker than Coralie in her good times. While Berenice was still here, he was doing his best to behave in his usual way. It was just that when he reached his hand to touch Coralie’s, he shuddered and harshly moved away, being sure the servant would notice that. It was stronger than him: he simply could not. He felt as if his grasp would put Grantaire’s scrutinizing and impudent touch on his lover. He suddenly felt the need to put his hands into a bowl of hot, hot water and scrub them as long as it would take to get rid of the memory of the painter. Even if it would make him get rid of his own skin.

"Shall I bring you something?" said Berenice in a low voice, reading his thoughts so perfectly that it made Lucien shiver.

"Some water to wash," he said with resignation, touching his temples.

The servant left the room, not bothering him with anything more. Lucien dared too look in the mirror: he was pale as death.

When after a couple of minutes Berenice returned with a bowl of water, Lucien was circling the room like a wild animal. He was too nervous to sit down. The servant gave Coralie an anxious look, but nothing changed: the girl was still sleeping a deep sleep.

"Berenice," said Lucien with despair, making a step towards her and suddenly losing control over his legs: he fell down next to the bed. Unable to raise himself up, he had a wild idea to stay like this all night, by Coralie’s feet. A good place for him. Perfectly suitable, one would say, if he could not be as strong as she was.

The servant did not ask him any questions; wordlessly, she knelt beside him and started to take of pieces of wardrobe, as if she was undressing a small child. Under her touch, Lucien calmed down a bit, allowing her to take care of him with her maternal tenderness, more harsh than Coralie’s, but still full of kindness. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, still after Berenice’s attentive gaze. For a moment he allowed himself to not think.

"Your friend, the doctor was here in the evening, when you were out," said the servant suddenly, fighting too tight knot of Lucien’s tie. "Dear God, why did you tie it so tight? The fabric will be crumpled now!"

"Don’t know," said Lucien in a tired voice, still remembering how quickly had he been dressing himself up when Grantaire had announced that the modelling is over, allowing him to collect his garments from the floor. "What did he say? Did he examine her?" His voice suddenly dropped down. "Is she… better?"

"No," sighed Berenice, raising her wrist to rub her forehead. "No change for the better. But neither for the worse, and that’s something to hold on to, isn’t it? My poor girl!" She shook her head and quickly focused on organizing Lucien’s clothes. "He said he would change her medicines for different ones, but he’s not sure if she’d endure it. But he was asking also about you. He was worried."

"About me? Ah, of course, Daniel must have told him. He wouldn’t have been himself, if he hadn’t said that, just leaving me in peace and letting everything be. Must have been so worried after seeing me, of course. But Daniel doesn’t know anything. I’m not the one who’s ill, I’m fine: I just need some rest."

Berenice gave him a worried look. Lucien sighed. Out of two women he shared the flat with, it was much easier to deceive his lover: at least Coralie believed his every word while she was in fever. The servant was distrustful even when he was doing his best to calm her down – it resulted in Berenice following every step of the former poet and paying more attention to him than she did to Coralie. Exhausted as he was, Lucien noticed that she tended to take out of his reach all objects he could harm himself with. Even Coralie’s scarves were taken away.

"You know that painter well?" asked Lucien, not expecting Berenice to blush. He never thought that servants can blush like all women, when they want to hide something they are ashamed of. It did not suit her corpulence and good-hearted, but ordinary face, far from being what one might call a pretty one. Yet, as Lucien suddenly realised, she must have had some feminine features, too. He kept his eyes on Coralie only, which was probably the reason why he never considered Berenice being a woman as well. The sudden thought that there might have been something between Berenice and Grantaire made Lucien look at the servant as if he was seeing her for the first time in his life.

"Well… a bit. Well enough," Berenice was straightening the fabric of her skirt, trying to hide obvious embarrassment and not looking at her interlocutor. "What, is that important? You want to know more about him?"

"Not really," said Lucien quietly, biting his lip. Even if for one brief moment he wanted to tell her about his doubts, he regained his composure. If she knew how the modelling exhausts him, she would surely press him to stop; he knew her that well. Which was why he laughed dryly, shaking his head: "He’s just, well, specific, you know. The artist, and so on. I must get used to him, that’s all. He told me to dress my hair for tomorrow, you know?"

"He’s an artist, as you said. A painter. Looking for beautiful people to make them more beautiful," whispered Berenice, dropping her head as if something has just died inside her. "For as long as I’ve known him. His expectations… I’m not surprised at all. Nor that he wanted to paint you. It’s just like it was with this poor child, my little Coralie. You have a treasure, one you can still sell well, if you invest in it."

"Yes, if I only had money for his expectations."

The servant tightened her lips and her good-hearted face took suddenly the expression of stern inflexibility. Only a few times did Lucien see her like this – determined and stubborn, able to overcome all the hardships to reach her goal.

"You will have the money, mister Lucien."

"I don’t…" started Lucien. He suddenly stopped, giving the servant a look of mixed fear and hope. He was not sure what Berenice’s plan may be, but he felt sudden anxiety. "How?" he asked courtly.

"You gave it to me to hide it from you, don’t you remember?" responded the servant, shrugging her shoulders to make it obvious that the whole matter is not worth the discussion. "I was to take care of it, so that you would not lose it all on cards. I’ve already spent most of it, but there’s still something left, maybe not much, but should be enough for a barber. I could actually try to do it on my own, but I think a proper barber will do it much better…"

Still unconvinced, Lucien hesitated. Something in Berenice’s eyes told him not to believe her.

"But you told me that we had already spend everything!" he protested poorly. In his heart he felt certain that he will surrender, but he was afraid of additional pangs of conscience. Besides, he already felt humiliated enough. Whatever the servant was planning, she wouldn't have to do it, if he himself was stronger and could deal with his own responsibilities. Yet he wasn't able to even convince Grantaire to pay him in advance. 

"And what in the world I was supposed to say, mister Lucien? If you knew about the money, you'd take them and start playing again," noticed Berenice sensibly, sensing all his anxieties. "But it doesn't matter now, I'll give it to you in the morning, when you'll be ready to go out. Don't worry about it. I'll better help you to wash yourself. And then, mister Lucien, please, go to sleep. You look as if you were carrying stones and not just posing."

The servant's advice seemed good. Lucien washed himself for a long time, far longer than usually: he would willingly spend an entire night doing this if he only could. Water soothed his anxiety and helped him forget; Lucien felt as if every drop was wiping away the memory of Grantaire's touch. He was aware that it will come back to haunt him soon, and not only once or twice; but he didn't want to think about it at least now. Finally, with his skin flushed from far too long scrubbing, he was ready to approach the armchair next to Coralie’s bed, where he was recently spending his nights.

Coralie woke up probably just a moment ago: she was watching him with eyes burning with fever. She looked so weak, so sickly pale! He stifled the sigh and forced himself to remain calm, so as not to scare or alarm her: as Bianchon told him a few days ago, in her current state Coralie should avoid exaggerated emotions. Lucien did not have any reason to not believe him.

When he cautiously reached out his hand to her, she touched it with all the trust she could muster. Lucien watched her in terror. Her movements seemed way too faint; she was fading away more and more each day, and he was not able to watch it. He tightened the grip on her wrist, trying to pull her back on the side of the living, and tilted on the armchair, closer to his lover. He didn't close his eyes, but fixed them on her face, pale and haggard from illness. Bordering on sleeping, he managed to notice Berenice, who was slowly picking the bowl up of the floor and quietly leaving the room.

He fell asleep leaning his head on Coralie's pillow, with his lips right by her temple.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Written by me. Translated also by me, which explains all the mistakes in the text. I'm not a native speaker of English, I know, but believe me, I'm really doing my best. :)_

IV

Berenice wasn't exactly someone to be called Grantaire's mistress; he slept with her a few times perhaps, more because of loneliness than of actual desire, and she really wasn't someone worth paying for. She didn't deserve much: he knew women well enough to know the exact measure of her obesity, work-worn hands and damaged clothes which barely revealed the signs of former prosperity. She didn't know any tricks to appear more beautiful than she really was. Not even similar to those used by himself: he at least was able to afford clothes slightly better than average, even if still not the most refined. Besides, he admitted inwardly that it didn't work quite well. It was his supposed wealth, not anything else, that attracted women to him. And perhaps this was the very reason he matched so well with Berenice: they were both ugly and, in fact, very lonely.

"We're nobodies to beautiful people, unless we can be of any use to them," he sometimes said harshly, and she nodded, understanding too well what he meant. The only difference between them was that she, in spite of all her bitter wisdom, still believed in exceptions. And Grantaire was aware that this rule didn't allow any exceptions.

Passerotti's _Caricature_ , unexpectedly put into practice. That was how they were called by Grantaire's colleagues, the ones that Grantaire couldn't stand but was obliged to tolerate if he wanted to have a later opportunity to sell his pictures; during the last few years, spent on apprenticeship under Gros, he got to know the world and its rules well enough to understand it. But in fact he never let Berenice leave his flat empty-handed, even if he really had no serious reason to continue an affair with a common servant. He didn't know where she lived: it was her that could find him whenever he was needed. He didn't bother to delude himself with the thought that she visited him because of any other reason. And when she didn't come, he didn't miss her at all: he could have many other, prettier women if he wanted to, so there was no need to think about this one. He wasn't poor, after all, and could afford nearly every courtesan, even the ones that valued themselves higher than the rest.

But there was something in Berenice that, even if he would never admit it, managed to gain his unexpected liking, which he found astonishing. Maybe it was her melodious northern accent that reminded him of the warm fields of Normandy, the peace of a little town and the taste of apple liquor. This woman and her quiet company reminded him of Alençon, where he spent the most beautiful year of his life. Or perhaps it weren't the memories that were really important, but only the fact of the ugliness they shared.

Their meetings, though irregular and seldom planned, were something that distinguished them from average couples. They spent much more time talking than cuddling. Grantaire liked talking to her, even though he was sure that she wouldn't understand most of the things he was saying: they were from two different worlds, joined together nearly by accident. Berenice would never comprehend neither his metaphors nor the reasons why he was cursing his education and supposed talent that led him to the bottom. Therefore, when they were meeting, he was the only one speaking, and she usually listened, not telling him anything; basically, it was the best for both of them. Besides, he announced her from the very beginning that he'd gladly help her if she needed it, but he wasn't interested in her personal matters, and she approved his requirements with no objections. And she was staying silent, exactly the way he wished her to be.

Only a few weeks later, one evening, when he was a bit more drunk and she was a bit more sad than usual, Grantaire told her that he needed a model. It was for the first time since he knew Berenice that she said something more than just a few usual nods and offered him someone who could be useful to him. And when Grantaire saw Lucien for the first time, he understood that this was exactly the person that he was looking for and that he wouldn’t be able to find anyone better fit for the job even if he decided to search half of Paris.

_Devil's Horn_ in the morning seemed much more friendly than in the evening; in broad daylight, with the early sun rays lighting the room through open shutters, it appeared somewhat cozy, an impression which could be hardly perceptible at any other time. Grantaire was sitting at one of the tables, leaning over a bottle. Any casual observer might have difficulty in determining whether or not he put himself to sleep the night before, at least until he'd come close to the painter and feel his alcohol-smelling breath. But Berenice found him without any problems: he came here every time he needed some privacy.

"I was looking for you," she said simply and sat down next to him, not waiting for an invitation. He smiled like he used to, ironically and somewhat mockingly, but with a sturdy gesture he pointed at a plate full of food. Berenice didn't wait for another invitation. After a while she ate like she had been starving for a week.

"You lost weight." Grantaire gave her a critical look. "So, it seems that one can't be sure of anything in the world! Ever since I met you, you were the epitome of constancy, Charybdis mine, and now even you stopped looking the same as before. Wait a bit longer and I won't be able to recognize you in the streets. Hell, I must be seriously losing ground under my feet if the only fixed point in my life suddenly starts to change. Guess I have to do something about it."

When Berenice did not answer, too busy eating, he unexpectedly embraced her and pulled her toward him.

"I didn't have the time to tell you before, but you deserve to be called the official pimp of Pan, Charybdis mine," he murmured straight into her hair, even though he was aware that she winced when she felt the stink of alcohol in his breath. "And it puts you higher than all his nymphs and shepherds. It seems that I owe you a favour or two. Now, this is going to be a real masterpiece! Not quite what they expect me to paint, but a masterpiece nonetheless. That child of yours is not accustomed to hiding his feelings, I hardly recall someone with such an expressive face. Not very practical in real life, but on the other hand, beneficial for me."

"Beneficial," mumbled Berenice, swallowing a mouthful of bread. She pushed the plate and looked at him gravely. "This is exactly what I was afraid of. That's why I came here, you know. To talk about him. I don't know what's on your mind, but Grantaire, for God's sake..."

"For _Lucien's_ sake, Charybdis mine, isn't that what you _really_ meant? Actually, I shouldn't be surprised at all." Grantaire frowned suddenly; he stared at the plate with the leftovers and slowly wiped his hands on his vest. "Thus, we'll talk about him, as you wish. But," he rose from his chair and gave her an arm with a mocking bow, "not necessarily in here. Do you fancy a little walk?"

After less than a quarter of an hour, they were entering his place in complete silence, not looking at each other. At first, Grantaire was still the talkative one, continuing his monologue with all the eloquence, not waiting for her answer. What really shut his mouth was an unexpected meeting with one of his colleagues that passed them on the street. He glared at Berenice’s hand, tightened around Grantaire’s sleeve, and scorned them both with his gaze. He didn’t say a word, but the painter was absolutely sure who’s going to be the next target of gossip in the circle of their fellow students. The only thing left to do in response for the unspoken disdain was to take off the hat and make a deep, theatrical bow just to show the passerby that Grantaire doesn’t give a damn about the opinions of others. Even though, the painter remained silent for the rest of their walk; it seemed so unnatural that he was aware of his companion’s anxiety.

When he opened the door to his place and let her in, he brushed her cheek with his fingers, pretending he didn’t do it on purpose. That simple gesture broke the spell of silence casted by his colleague: Berenice let go of his arm and took a deep breath, suddenly calm again.

"Here's a perfect place for the council of the gods, don't you think so, Charybdis mine?" asked Grantaire, getting all his self-assurance back. "Although maybe I should rather lead us to Olympus, if you came in the name of Apollo, but alas, I'm afraid it's impossible. At least for now. So, what did you want to tell me, if I may ask?"

"Nothing but a few things. Whatever you think of him, he didn't deserve it all, really," Berenice said softly, looking around the place. She has been visiting him a few times already, but only in the evenings. Now, in the daylight, she was able to see all the mess: Grantaire noticed a hint of disgust in her eyes, but didn’t say a word. Instead he sat heavily on a small stool and bent, slowly unbuttoning his shoes. Then he stretched ostentatiously.

"Oh, and who else did? But show me a man worthy of anything. That child of yours is nothing but beauty and soon he'll start to act like all the rest. I mean, if he haven't started yet." Grantaire impetuously threw his shoes on the floor and moved to the bed, pretending not to notice the sudden grimace on Berenice's face. "Have a drink if you like, there’s a bottle of absinthe on the table. It’s not that terrible if you get used to it. Contrary to popular beliefs, it helps to maintain a sober judgement. And stop worrying already!”

When she shook her head, he put his hands on her shoulders, drawing her closer. This gesture wasn’t a brutal one, it contained a strange blend of roughness and affection with which he usually treated her: it was more than she could expect from any other man. She didn't protest.

"Everything can be measured, believe me," murmured Grantaire. "You'll see it yourself. It's all the matter of the appropriate rate. _Mene, Tekel, Upharsin_. Alas, there’s no place for lonely fingers writing on walls nowadays. And if by miracle you find one, I’ll bet a franc to a centime that it belongs to a beginning painter at the most. Finger of God is an illusion, especially in our times, but, Charybdis mine, _populus vult decipi_ , it has always been like this and I don’t think it’s going to change anytime soon. That’s why we’re getting them what they want, the golden calf or the woman, it doesn’t really matter. Yes, you can be measured too, even if finding an amateur could prove a bit troublesome."

Berenice nodded, biting her lip; it was more than obvious that she didn’t understand any of Grantaire’s literary allusions, but he wasn’t going to explain them anyway. There was no need to do it. Perhaps it was even better not letting her know; her unawareness was one of the qualities that made him open up to her more than to anyone else. They differ in many respects and it was easier this way. Safer, at least. She never wanted to be the inquisitive one, she just stayed quiet and let him do the talking.

“Why don’t we try it?” Grantaire suggested, slowly running his hand over her hair. “It’s not that hard, well, maybe a bit at the beginning. It gets easier later, day after day, and finally you end on your knees. Neither beauty nor money alone is enough. An as for the talent, oh, this one’s a real crap. He’ll understand it too, the sooner the better. That's the way the world works and nobody can escape it, no matter how much he tries.”

"I'm still not sure if I did the right thing telling you about him," sighed Berenice, burying her face in the pillow. Grantaire sneered and shrugged.

"What, are you afraid that I'm going to deprave him? Don't believe in rumours. Besides," he twisted his lips, his eyes betraying a flicker of bitterness, "the depravity is already inside him. Beauty or money, these are the only two things that link people together nowadays. You already told me about him and, to be precise, about her too. Do you really think that their story would remain the same if any of them would look like me or you? Do you even consider her noticing him if he had my features? Such naivety at your age, it's almost unthinkable. I wouldn’t believe it if I heard it from someone else.”

"It's not like that," she said quietly, not looking him in the eyes. "Absolutely not. You don't know him, Grantaire, not in the way I do. I don't know what's really going on between you and I'm not sure if I even want to know. But I'm not going to wait until he becomes just like you."

"I'm just trying to paint him, all right?" snarled Grantaire, spreading his hands. "And whatever he's going to do with it, it's not something that I'm going to take responsibility for. Well, Charybdis mine, you may accuse of many things, but surely not of dishonesty. You yourself know best."

"But he's not myself," sighed Berenice, clearly distressed. "He's not even one of these girls posing for you."

Grantaire raised an eyebrow, looking at Berenice with genuine interest.

"So, do you think I have some girls posing for me, Charybdis mine? Go on, tell me about them as it seems that I’m always the last to know. I always thought they're just a couple of whores in need of some coins. And that the only thing that keeps them from despising me is the undying love for my money. Ah, such a sincere feeling." He shook his head and reached for the absinthe. His hands were shaking slightly when he was pouring some alcohol into two glasses. "Do you know how they look at me when they think that I’m not able to see it?"

"What are you actually trying to achieve? Do you want to get revenge for both of us? Just because it all came the way it came?" She put her hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. "Grantaire!"

But the painter didn’t answer. He remained silent, slowly sipping his absinthe and watching impassively as Berenice removed her hand from his arm and started to unbutton her blouse. She wasn't able to arouse his lust; her movements were too clumsy, her silhouette - too obese. In fact, she wasn’t worth even half the money that he spent on her. The real point was that no matter as much pathetic she seemed to be, Grantaire knew she’s an exact mirror image of himself. He quietly laughed at both of them, with bitterness and spite, and bluntly admitted that they really deserve each other.

“Grantaire?” said Berenice, already half-naked, watching him expectantly. She grabbed his hand and pressed it to her sweaty body; he backed up with a wry grimace.

"You're quick to learn, Charybdis mine, much quicker than I thought. So, tell me what's it all about. But," he looked her in the eye with unusual seriousness, "at least be honest. Don't try to tell me that you suddenly feel such a great temptation that you can't resist me. And above all, spare me all your sweet talking. Come on, you can be sensible, quite unlike the other women I know. Therefore, let’s get down to business.”

"I need some money." Berenice crossed her chubby arms around her naked breasts with resignation, trembling slightly; Grantaire couldn’t tell if she was either frozen or nervous. She looked even more grotesque than usual. “As much as you can, even a franc, even a few sous will do. Not for free. I'll give it back, I promise, as soon as I'll be able to."

Yeah, right, perfectly the same as before, Grantaire wanted to answer, but he just raised his eyebrows instead. Without further comments he reached for his purse, spilled the coins onto his bed and put a few of them into Berenice’s outstretched hand. It seemed much more than she expected. She tightened her grip on the money and with a free hand she encouragingly lifted her skirt.

"These are for him, right?" said Grantaire in a whisper. "The innocent child of yours wasn’t able to resist the temptation of an easy money and asked you to come here. That's exactly what I was expecting for. Do you really think that I wouldn’t make it without a barber? And you’re still trying to convince me to believe in anyone?”

Berenice leaned closer to him and smiled with a strange, sad smile. She slowly shook her head.

"You do not understand, Grantaire, he does not have a clue. I came here by myself. If he only knew that I’m here, he’d surely fall to pieces, my poor child. Let’s keep it to ourselves, all right?” She looked at him anxiously. "You’re not going to tell him, are you?"

"Does he really mean so much to you?" he asked, slowly stroking her clenched hand in which she still held the coins. Berenice nodded and Grantaire felt a sudden pang of regret.

Whatever she decided to do with him, she would earn much more than while working on the streets, he thought, pressing to her sweated body and glaring at her face, even uglier than usual, waiting for his next move. He shuddered: for a moment he was able to understand all those girls watching him with sheer disgust while sharing his bed. When he rearranged Berenice’s skirts to hide her face and she obediently wrapped his legs around him, accepting his conditions, he felt a sudden relief that he didn’t have to look her in the eyes.


End file.
